


two is company (three's a crowd)

by kuro49



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Developing Relationship, Multi, Threesome - F/M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-23
Updated: 2015-12-23
Packaged: 2018-05-08 14:51:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 883
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5501765
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kuro49/pseuds/kuro49
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“I cannot believe you kissed <i>me</i> first, Peril.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	two is company (three's a crowd)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [kakakc](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kakakc/gifts).



> written for that one of the two ride or die sib in your life. hbd babe.

They are in Rome, in Istanbul, in Lisbon.

They are in each other’s ear, at each other’s throat, on each other’s every last nerve.

Despite all that, Napoleon Solo is fond of the company he keeps.

What his company thinks of him though? He figures he will know if they feel strong enough about it. (About him, that is.) Until then, he doesn’t bother checking the breast pocket of his suit for that little something Mother Russia’s made, sitting pressed against his heart.

Until then, he lets them listen in. After all, he can wait. He can take all this time to imagine the face Peril would make.

 

The rustling of the fabric comes first. The dirty talk comes next. And then the moaning starts up.

 

He hides listening bugs in their clothes. She buys the dress that is neither of their picks. And he has girls, one after another, coming in and out from his door on a separate floor.

“Don’t look at me.”

Gaby says, finally putting down the bottle, setting it next to the unused tumbler.

They are the ears in the next room.

She isn’t so far gone that she doesn’t see the grimace Illya has on his face, looking like it has been carved in with a knife. She is tipsy, not drunk. Going, not gone. Gaby is content just to stay on the sofa and passing out for the night this way.

But Illya only trains his eyes on her like she is the solution to all of his problems.

She isn’t.

Instead, she tells him this with her arm pillowing her head, eyes looking to him like she is, at the very least, a temporary solution to all of his problems.

“Take me to bed.”

His finger stills in its insistent tapping.

 

They are in New York, in Moscow, in Berlin.

They are unaware that there is some ~~thing~~ one (make that two) out there for them.

Gabrielle Teller has been on her own for a long time now. In that little, out of the way chop shop in East Berlin, beneath each car, the silence fills up with metal meeting metal and the crackling of static and interference from that ancient radio.

And that is just it.

She doesn’t hate this.

(But then again, she hasn’t known anything but this. None of them has. Napoleon is always going to be under the CIA’s thumb and what Illya’s father has done will always come before anything he could accomplish.

She takes to waiting, and she imagines she could have waited a long time. Then Napoleon Solo shows up, in an expensive suit, echoing Alexander Waverly’s words almost verbatim.)

 

He turns it off. In the silence, she raises both arms out to him and he lifts her easily into his.

Somewhere above them, Napoleon drags in a sharp breath.

 

Illya Kuryakin has the will to keep the company he has.

And it is quite the will he has.

When the knocking comes in the morning and he opens it to the sight of the cowboy at their door, his hands find the lapels of another expensive suit.

His mouth collides with his.

Napoleon thinks he can consider it a kiss, for the most part. He has him bodily pressed against the wall. He has Gaby standing at just the right spot to catch it all. Then again, Illya’s definition of a kiss is probably not the same as anyone else’s in the room. It is biting with a bit of a sweet sweep of tongue.

Gaby has no idea if Illya intends this as an intimidation technique.

“When have we been dating?”

If Gaby didn’t want any answer to the question Napoleon is asking, she might be laughing.

“Istanbul.”

And like it is a matter of fact, Illya replies.

It is telling, the company they keep for themselves, how that one single word brings them all to the same page. It is still Illya’s book, and that is something they need to work on. But there is plenty on that list already.

“I had a concussion.”

Solo states that like they could have forgotten. Like Gaby hasn’t lay down next to him and prodded him awake every hour. Like Illya hasn’t sat at the edge of the same bed to take over when Gaby finally dozed off.

Like the three of them haven’t been watching out for each other for much longer than U.N.C.L.E. was made official.

Gaby doesn’t wait, not anymore, she laughs.

 

 

 

 _extra_.

 

Napoleon Solo figures this is not the kind of relationship that gets a note left out on the side table in the morning, but.

“I cannot believe you kissed _me_ first, Peril.”

“We should be going.”

His protest is weak and Illya knows it. The glare he shoots him though, that keeps Napoleon from stopping him when he goes for their luggage. But it is not Solo that has ever stopped him from doing anything.

(It is Gaby.)

“Waverly can wait.”

She says from that same spot and he comes easily (enough, at least) to her. Gaby is not standing on top of the table but he holds her gaze the entire time. He bends down, he closes that distance.

He finally gives her that kiss from Rome.

 


End file.
